


Addicted to a Certain Lifestyle

by Solitary_Endeavor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, M/M, No actual sex since it's all in Sherlock's head, Non-canonical missing scene, PWP, Sherlock thinks it's one-sided but it's really not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Endeavor/pseuds/Solitary_Endeavor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cocaine makes Sherlock reckless and shameless, at least in the privacy of his own mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addicted to a Certain Lifestyle

**Author's Note:**

> Thisss...was written mostly as a one-off writing exercise, while I continue to wrestle with a couple other much more complex, emotionally draining stories. Kinklock's tumblr anons are honestly Wild, and one of them suggested [a scenario](http://kinklock.tumblr.com/post/97255207755) I kept coming back to (link contains fic spoilers). Eventually, I had to write it.
> 
> No profit made, no infringement intended, etc.

 

* * *

 

 

  
The whingy, spotty young drug addict who has squeezed himself into the back seat of Mary’s hatchback next to Sherlock keeps up a running, resentful commentary under his breath about the injustices that John (‘that _bleedin’nutter!_ ’) has committed against him.

 

‘Stood there and yelled at me, like...like he was my _da_ or something, nevermind he’s jus’a lit’le guy!’ he whispers mutinously to “Shezza.”  ‘Didn’ even blink when I took out m’knife, don’t think he ever looked away from my face, t’ think about it.  No, he saw my knife and stepped _closer_ , he did, and didn’ give me a chance to hardly do nu’ffin before ‘e just about broke my arm.   _Threw_ me into th’ wall and knocked me to the ground, he did!’

 

Sherlock’s eyes flick over the urchin rapidly to gauge the truth of his story.  All likely true, it would seem, except the bit about John breaking his arm, but only just.  Could the charms of married life have lost their luster for Dr Watson already, Sherlock wonders curiously.

 

Sherlock tries to imagine it, and finds it easier than he would have thought: John on a mission, John determined to be _useful_ , and not in the mood to deal with puffed-up “smack-heads.”  John’s dangerous, deceptive little smile of displeasure, John flexing a rock-steady left hand and itching, hungry for a fight—for an excuse to let loose that temper of his, just a bit.

 

John refusing to back down from whatever pretense of a threat would have been offered, laughable in comparison to what John had faced in Afghanistan, or London’s most disreputable back alleys with Sherlock for that matter.  John moving forward fearlessly, engaging with military efficiency to disarm and disable in as few moves as possible, maybe—quick glance at John’s face in the rearview mirror, oh, obvious— _definitely_ using more force than was strictly necessary.  

 

And it’s probably the cocaine (definitely the cocaine) but Sherlock tunes out everyone’s inane chatter as he tries to concentrate on the matter of Magnussen and whether the man will let this little performance of Sherlock’s bait him, and not on recalling the tense, angry strength of John’s hand (the first time he has touched Sherlock since the wedding reception, since a warm palm clasped firmly against the prickling nape of Sherlock’s neck some thirty-two days, ten hours, and twenty-odd minutes ago) as it had curled around Sherlock’s biceps to haul him up off of his grotty mattress, when Sherlock moved too slowly for John’s liking.

 

Sherlock’s overstimulated synapses send him clicking along down several (im)possible avenues of thought, alternate reactions to John finding “Shezza” where he did, the cocaine making Sherlock reckless and shameless, at least in the privacy of his own mind: John tugging him from the mattress not by his arm, but with a fist in his hair, the sensitivity of Sherlock’s follicles rendering him helpless to resist; John wrestling him to the floor and pinning Sherlock with the weight of his body as he pushed back the sleeves of Sherlock’s windcheater, searching for track marks in the hollows of Sherlock’s elbows; John forcing him to his feet, forcing him chest-first against the wall whilst following, the compact musculature of John’s own chest pressed tightly against Sherlock’s back registering as a line of fire, ignited beneath Sherlock’s skin, which only flared all the brighter when John reached around to shove a hand into the pocket of Sherlock’s jogging bottoms, overzealous in his desire to discover “Shezza’s” stash.

 

The next thing Sherlock knows, he’s being snapped at—‘Out of the car, Sherlock.   _Now._ ’—and is half hard.

 

Sherlock stumbles from the vehicle into the sunlight, uncertain whether he is thankful or not that the jogging bottoms are so much more forgiving than his usual, impeccably tailored trousers as John drags his gaze down his body with thinly veiled curiosity, upset, and (Sherlock’s cock twitches) disgust.

 

Someone inconsequential says something that Sherlock neglects to even register, and then John is leading them inside, barking out orders as he ushers the lot of them into Molly’s lab—‘Isaac, call your mum.  You with the spots, shut up and don’t touch anything.  Molly, I need a urine collection cup.’

 

John soon manhandles Sherlock out through the back door of the lab with a sterile plastic container clenched in his fist, ignoring Molly’s shocked stammering, her meek demand to know what’s going on, and chivvies Sherlock out into the hallway toward the loos.

 

‘I _can_ walk under my own power,’ Sherlock belatedly reminds John.  John’s hand tightens on Sherlock’s arm in response, and the sensation seems to shoot straight to every major lymph node in Sherlock’s body.  

 

‘Let’s hope you can still piss under your own power, too,’ John growls as they reach the single-occupant loo at the end of the hall, then shoves the plastic cup into Sherlock’s hand and jostles Sherlock none-too-gently through the door.  ‘Or, so help me, I’ll follow you in there and—‘

 

‘You’re bullying me,’ Sherlock says, but he reins in his instinctive delight over this fact before it can bleed into his voice, as he suspects that would be yet another item for the extensive ‘Bit Not Good’ list.

 

‘Oh, I most definitely am,’ John agrees humourlessly.  He pulls the bathroom door shut behind Sherlock, closing himself out in the hall, with only an unlocked door separating him and Sherlock’s urine sample collection cup.  ‘And don’t come out until it’s halfway full!’

 

Sherlock curls his lip in the direction of the door.  He has always resented being treated like a child, and perversely, his response has been only to behave even more childishly in return, but this isn’t a battle of wills with Mycroft in which Sherlock is merely attempting to score points.  No, this is a battle of wills with a former soldier who has seen combat, and who will not hesitate to follow through on any threats.  Something in Sherlock’s belly clenches pleasantly with anticipation, even as he tells himself not to test John.

 

But the cocaine and John’s incandescent anger mess with Sherlock’s head, and as he tugs down the front of his jogging bottoms, Sherlock inhales sharply, noting he’s still half hard from the ghost of John’s strong, capable fingers digging into his biceps.

 

 _Pathetic_ , Sherlock thinks, vaguely disgusted by his transport.

 

He wraps a hand around himself, intending to squeezing firmly enough to discourage blood flow, when John’s voice sounds through the wood of the door.

 

‘No funny business, Sherlock,’ he warns.  ‘You’re not getting out of this.’

 

 _Funny business_ , Sherlock repeats to himself with a sneer.  Who does John think he is, to remove himself completely from 221B, from Sherlock’s _life_ , and think he can still make demands on Sherlock and his behaviour.  The motivating factor has always been to prevent John from leaving, surely John must have realized?  And now that John _has_ left, he has lost all leverage—all grounds for bargaining.

 

Sherlock has not heard from John Watson in thirty-two days, and the first words out of his mouth are berating Sherlock’s method for approaching a case, a case Sherlock was perfectly capable of handling alone—had no _choice_ but to handle alone—so what gave him the right?  What was John going to do?  The worst was already done.

 

With a huff, Sherlock contemplates the plastic cup and its green plastic screwtop.  Well, if there’s one thing he’s always been good at, it’s dropping to the lowest common denominator purely out of spite.

 

Sherlock unscrews the sample container and places the lid on the edge of the sink basin.  The fingers of his right hand return to curl around his cock, but instead of moving to stand over the toilet and piss into the sample container, he braces himself against the sink with his other hand.

 

‘Sherlock!’ John barks through the door, and Sherlock jolts with a guilty start.  ‘Are you doing it?’

 

‘A...moment, please!’ he grits through his teeth, closing his eyes in the hope of collecting himself.  The high has mostly wound down into a low simmer beneath his skin, but the threat of full erection is persistent, and John barking orders at him, standing over him in all but visual presence as Sherlock slumps here with his stiffening cock in his hand is in fact the opposite of helpful.

 

The state of mind John seems to be in, Sherlock wouldn’t find it terribly surprising if John lost all patience with him and barged in to make good on his earlier threat.  The door is not locked, after all.

 

Sherlock bites into his lower lip as he loosely pulls his fist up the length of his cock, concentrating on the sensation and imagining how much more powerful it might be if John were to step through the door and catch him at it.

 

John would be angry.  Furious.  John was agitated enough this morning to storm a crack den in search of a boy he doesn’t even particularly like and beat up a junkie with a knife while he was at it.  Finding Sherlock there had only worsened his mood.  

 

 _For fuck’s sake, what are you doing?_ he imagined John would snap.

 

The dangerous tone of not-John’s voice in his head has Sherlock struggling not to hiss aloud as he wraps his hand a bit more firmly around himself and pumps once, his hips jerking into the sensation of their own accord.

 

 _Are you listening to me?  This isn’t doing a lot to dissuade me that you’re high as a fucking kite!_ John would probably say, marching the single step across the floor to crowd up against Sherlock.  The heat of him would be unbearable, radiating off him along with his indignation like a palpable caress.  Sherlock shudders at the thought of it, and he’s suddenly, dismayingly hard.

 

 _Fucking convenient_ , John scoffs, _you’ll never manage a piss now, like that._

 

Then the only way out is through, Sherlock thinks.  He fists himself with more pressure.  And then again.  The fingers of his left hand curl tighter around the cold porcelain as his knees threaten to buckle.  His hips begin to jerk an abortive, jerky rhythm.

 

 ~~ _Jesus, Sherlock..._  John, reverent.~~  No.  No, delete it, not like that, not anymore.  John is married now and has no more patience for Sherlock’s _antics_.  No more patience for Sherlock, himself.  Hardly surprising, considering.

 

 _Jesus, Sherlock!_  Shock and exasperation, much more likely.  Disgust, perhaps.  He should probably feel badly about that, but the remaining traces of cocaine in his bloodstream have him fixated on this hypothetical disgust, and how it would transform a John Watson whose own blood is already up—kicked his way into a flop house full of drug addicts, slapped a knife out of a junkie’s hand, threatened to _throw Sherlock over his shoulder_ when it seemed he couldn’t or wouldn’t get up off that mattress on his own.

 

He curls over the sink, stance widening and his thighs straining against the fabric of his jogging bottoms as he cups a palm over the leaking head of his cock; preseminal fluid isn’t much of a lubricant, but it’s better than nothing.  Sherlock presses his lips tightly together, breathing heavily through his nose as he imagines John beside him, eyes on the movement of his hips.  John watching, jaw clenched, as he shamelessly ruts into his hand.

 

 _That’ll take you ages,_ John points out unkindly.   _If it’s cocaine.  If you’re high enough, you’ll only get yourself more and more worked up, but you probably won’t even be able to come._

 

Sherlock bites back a groan and speeds up his rhythm, twisting his fist round the head of each upstroke before thrusting harder.  He imagines John watching the flex of the muscles of his arse.

 

 _God, you’re a mess,_ John mutters, crowding closer suddenly, until Sherlock is pressed up against the basin.  A hand fisting in his hair, bending him over further and a boot kicking his legs wider.   _Sherlock Holmes, shooting up in a crack den, filthy and high out of his mind.  What would people think, if they knew?_

 

Sherlock hardly cares.  The only thing he cares about right now is the phantom touch of John’s belt buckle just under the curve of his exposed arse.

 

_Probably let any number of those filthy little grubbers in there do anything at all they liked to you, and you wouldn’t even remember it, would you?  Whatever the coke didn’t take care of, you’d just ‘delete’ anyway._

 

“Maybe,” he would lie, just to get under John’s skin.  Just to see what he’d do.  “But I wouldn’t know, would I?”

 

 _Should I have Molly check for that, too?_ John growls in his ear.  Sherlock imagines blunt fingertips teasing at the humid crack of his arse, but dry, and John is a doctor; even whilst angry at him, John would be too conscientious for that.  Those same fingertips at his lips, then, though even in his imagination Sherlock balks, two or three days unwashed as he is.

 

 _Oh, please,_ John scoffs, and forces his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth, his other fist tightening in Sherlock’s hair warningly.  Sherlock’s own fist tightens around his aching cock.  He knows himself too well, anyway.  Knows he would willingly suck down John Watson’s short, dextrous fingers no matter the circumstances, if given half a chance.

 

 ~~ _Pathetic._~~  No, not John’s voice, those words are his own, not John’s.

 

 _That’s right,_ John would murmur, _yeah._  His fingers pushing deep over the back of Sherlock’s tongue.  Sherlock swallowing against his gag reflex without protest, tasting John’s warm, salty skin, and just the hint of himself, swallowing back a whimper as well.

 

The knocking at the door brings him most of the way out of the fantasy—‘Sherlock!  Have you done it?’ John is practically shouting at him through the door, exasperated—and the phantom pressure against his scalp disappears, the fingers are gone from his mouth, and precome dribbles over the knuckles of his hand where he grips himself.

 

‘All right!’ Sherlock snarls back, ‘Another—few moments, I’m almost...!’

 

He forces himself back into the fantasy with the imagined feel of John’s hand curled around the nape of his neck, impatiently forcing him toward the sink, and saliva-slick fingers prodding none-too-gently at his hole.

 

 _Maybe I’ll just conduct this part of the exam myself,_ John suggests, sinking two fingers home without preamble.  Sherlock’s buttocks clench, sending a weak spurt of clear fluid from the tip of his cock.  Sweat is beginning to collect at his hairline, his armpits, the backs of his knees.  He’s burning up, in a cheap windcheater with cotton jogging bottoms stretched around the middle of his thighs.  Still, it’s not what Sherlock really wants.  

 

 _Oh,_ John says suddenly, as if he can feel the thought in the clutch of Sherlock’s interior muscles around his fingers. _I always knew you were a greedy hedonist, deep down._  John’s fingers thrust once, as deeply as they’ll go.   _Quite deep down, it turns out._

 

And then Sherlock is smothering a gasp as John’s fingers are gone, there’s the rustling of fabric, and John’s other hand leaves the back of his neck so John can spread him wide.

 

 _Look at you,_ John whispers in his mind as Sherlock’s whole body thrums with anticipation, his arsehole twitching, _you’re gagging for it.  Desperate._

 

He’s always desperate for John these days.

 

With the utilitarian logic of fantasy, John is suddenly there, pushing slickly, inexorably into Sherlock’s body with his absurdly thick cock (John certainly doesn’t walk the way he does out of affectation).  Sherlock’s own fist spasms around his obscenely hard cock, and he has to bite down on his own upper arm to keep from yelling.  John certainly wouldn’t miss such a thing.  He would bend over Sherlock’s back, forcing him lower, and pretend he wasn’t smug while being incandescently so.

 

 _Holy Christ, you’re tight,_ he imagines John saying to him in a strained voice, and it sends a powerful shudder down his spine.   _Tight and hot and jeeezus, I should have fucked you ages ago._

 

Yes, Sherlock thinks.  Yes, yes, yes, John.  John, with his hands around Sherlock’s hips hard enough to leave bruises.  Yes.

 

 _You’re mine,_ he hears John tell him, _do you understand?  No one else’s._  Sherlock bites back a whimper.

 

Always.

 

In his imagination, John would immediately have at him with a punishing rhythm because—hand fisted in his hair again, tugging him back and exposing his throat—John would find it necessary to remind him that _You’re in here for a reason, Sherlock, and it’s not reward for bad behaviour._

 

‘No,’ Sherlock would have to agree, but he would be able to feel the lie in the exquisite slide of John within him, the press of John’s nose in the crook of his neck.  Bent over the sink Sherlock releases the hand which previously held his weight to reach between his legs and dig a knuckle into his perineum.  He feels the unmistakable stirrings of orgasm and chokes back the whinge which rises unbidden in his throat.

 

_Fuck, you’re gorgeous like this, needy and out of your mind with how much you love taking my cock._

 

‘Just you,’ Sherlock would gasp to be sure John understood.

 

 _That’s right, just me_ — **Sherlock!** ”

 

The shock of John’s voice and the rattle of the door handle push him over the edge so suddenly he nearly doesn’t manage to stifle the moan which catches in his chest as he comes all over his own hand, shaking and trembling and panting for breath.  

 

‘Yes, alright, I’ve done it, I’m coming out!’ he manages to force out whilst his jaw is clenched against the sweetly tremorous aftershocks that ripple through him.  Sherlock fumbles for the tap, turns it on full blast as he fumbles some more with the plastic sample container.  He pisses as soon as he can manage it, once his cock has softened sufficiently, then screws on the lid and sets it on the edge of the basin once more.  

 

Unable to look at himself in the mirror, Sherlock hitches his jogging bottoms back into place, washes his hands.  Splashes a handful of water over his face and rubs a hand over the sweat-damp nape of his neck for good measure.  If Sherlock were to take a look at himself as he stepped from the loo, he is certain what he’d really been doing would be instantly, glaringly obvious.  Fortunately or no, John has never been quite that observant.  John will blame it on the cocaine, of which he’ll have proof soon enough.

 

Ripping a paper towel from the dispenser, Sherlock blots his face and hands.  He collects his urine sample and turns toward the door, but not before mentally recalibrating from thirty-two days, ten hours to approximately eight and a half minutes, and counting. 


End file.
